


House Calls

by 3_Patch_Problem_Child



Series: A New Road [9]
Category: House M.D., Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Case Fic, Chronic Pain, Dean being a jealous wanker, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Fluff, Gratuitous use of 80s love songs, House Being House, Impala Sex, Its Never Lupus, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Parking, Rimming, Romance, Wincest - Freeform, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 17:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3_Patch_Problem_Child/pseuds/3_Patch_Problem_Child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the ninth installment of a 12-part SPN series. Our boys are in Princeton Plainsboro to pay a visit to a friend of Bobby's and investigate a haunting.  They cross paths with an irascible diagnostician and his crew. </p><p>Thank you all for the Con-crit, kudos, and comments! Please remember the con-crit, kudos, and comments are quite welcome an help warm up the rusty story-telling apparatus in my noggin. That pesky muse has been dormant too long.</p><p>TRIGGER WARNING: References to child-neglect, abuse and John Winchester's significant challenges child rearing. References to substance abuse, depression, mental illness, and suicidal ideation.  Specific chapter warnings are posted at the beginning of each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dr. Sexy, M.D.

“Want another beer?” The man across from Sam points at Dean’s pint glass and Dean shakes his head. Truth is he does want another beer, but not if it’s going on Dr. Robert Chase’s tab.  
  
Dean doesn’t shine to the looks of this guy Bobby sent them to help out. The kid is all money and breeding with a baby-face and a _strip-off-those-panties-and-crawl-in-the-backseat_ Australian accent. _Dr._ Robert Chase’s head is inclined toward Sam as they examine a map of bus routes and Dean’s gut is going all haywire, roiling with an unfamiliar pitch.  
  
_‘Arghhhh’_ Dean thinks, swigging his beer and stuffing another deep fried pickle in his mouth. _I can’t believe I’m jealous of this tool._ Dean and Sam stopped in Princeton-Plainsboro on the way to Vermont as a favor to Bobby Singer, the grizzled cuss of a hunter who served as father and confessor to them both since their father traded his soul for Dean’s life. One more hunt, a simple salt and burn. That’s what Bobby had lined up for them; help out a friend in need, someone Bobby had encountered on his travels, a good guy concerned about an angry spirit spooking drunks around a hospital. It’s what the boys specialize in, except Bobby had failed to mention the _guy_ looks all of twenty-six with a mop of wheat colored hair and _dive-on-in-the-water-is-fine_ aquamarine eyes. Dean had figured being a department head in a hospital equaled crusty old son-of-a-bitch, not a jet-set Dr. Sexy, M.D. that Sam might find attractive.   
  
Dean ponders how quickly he could snap Dr. Sexy’s neck while he munches on a pickle. He tries to remember the color of Jess’ eyes, wondering if Sam prefers blue eyes to green. They have no rules, no lines to cross, and no understandings that have been spoken outright. He doesn’t so much doubt Sam; they have exchanged _I love you_ and _forever_. But old habits in normal folks die hard and old habits in Winchesters need to be pumped full of rock salt, gassed, and torched. Dean is nothing, if not a true-blue Winchester who is short on trust when it comes to believing that there are endings of the happy variety. In spite of everything he and Sam have been through; hell and torture, love and redemption, on the way-deep-down, if someone were to take a right at Dean’s over-developed sense of bravado, they would be bound to run into a sinkhole of self-doubt large enough to swallow Rhode Island.  
  
“Dude, what do you think?”  
  
“What was that Sammy?” Dean’s freezes another spear of deep-fried heaven half way to his lips. He’s been less on the paying attention side and more on the glaring with much malice aforethought at Dr. Robert Chase, who is now looking at Dean like a frightened kitten in a room full of rabid pit bulls. Dean smirks and chomps on the pickle, a maniacal glint in his moss green eyes.   
  
Sam’s boot connects with his leg and Dean jumps then reaches down to rub his shin; on his way back up he makes a comic, but pointed show of rubbing Sam’s thigh from knee to hip and winking at Robert. Sam is relieved that the young man flushes a bit but then appears to cotton on to Dean’s seemingly schizophrenic behavior. Robert waves at a slender young woman with long, tousled honey-blonde hair and a pretty face as open and righteous as a family bible. The woman waves back and makes her way over to their table followed by a dark-haired man whose tired, cheerless eyes belie the honest, kindness in his smile. Dean recognizes the contradiction as one he has battled the entirety of his life and feels an immediate sense of kinship.  
  
“Sam, Dean this is Alison Cameron my…girlfriend, she’s the senior attending in the ER at PPTH.” The hesitation is no more noticeable than cold breath in the fog, but Dean’s trained ear hears it and smirks. He leans over Sam and flashes a blinding, toothy grin at Alison clasping her hand and unleashing the full force of his whiskey and gravel voice.  
  
“Nice to meet you. Jeez, Sammy, if I knew they made doctors this pretty I’d have stopped letting you stitch me up years ago.”   
  
“Cristo.” Sam whispers and rolls his eyes, giving Dean another swift jab under the table.  
  
“And this is James Wilson.” Robert edges closer to Alison and threads his fingers through hers. _Ah, you don’t like how it feels, do you, you smarmy bastard._ Dean thinks and then questions if he should check himself for a vagina when he gets back to the hotel.   
  
“Good to know you, Jim.” Dean drops the capering Casanova act and grasps the man’s hand in his own giving it a firm, respectful shake.   
  
“You can call me Wilson. How do you two know Chase?” Robert Chase’s eyes grow wide and his mouth opens and closes not sure whether to jump in or let the question hang unanswered.   
  
“Our uncle is a biblical scholar with a severe case of wander-lust. He met Robert on one of his travels. We were passing through so he asked us to stop in and say hello.” Sam’s seamless transition into the lie is as easy as breathing. Both men are so practiced at cover stories that false identities spring to their lips with more comfort than the details of their actual lives.  
  
“Huh, you don’t see many itinerant scholars these days.” Wilson leans against the table, his attention wavering. Dean loses the thread of the conversation but is comfortable letting Sam take the reigns. He feels heat gather in his loins as he listens to the rise and fall of Sam’s voice. Dean is curious about the extent of the damage that Wilson has suffered, he can smell loss and pain coming off him in waves like heat shimmering off an empty stretch of blacktop in the dead of summer. Dean picks up Sam’s empty glass of beer, raising his eyebrows. Sam shakes his head.   
  
Dean notices Wilson’s eyes darting to the other side of the bar and falling on an older man with cropped salt and pepper hair and a close cut scruff of stubble sitting alone and sipping whiskey. He watches the other man, his heavy furrowed brow and the care-worn downward curl of his lips reminiscent of the emotional razor wire that their father John was so adept at stringing around himself. Dean looks back at Sam and nudges his knee, signaling that he is done with the meet and greet and wants to bail. Sam nudges back and nods.  
  
When he turns back to scope out the older guy that Wilson was watching, he notices a woman with a piercing, hungry expression leaning into the man’s shoulder. She whispers in the man's ear. The woman isn’t a stranger; there is a cloying sort of intimacy that is apparent from the way the man orients himself toward her without having to meet her eyes and the manner in which the woman presses into him leaving only a fraction of an inch of space between their bodies. It reminds Dean of a game he used to play with girls in junior high; each would mirror the other’s movements as they stood together, getting him close enough to smell the sweet promise of strawberry lip gloss and Chantilly body powder, but far enough away that his raging hard on wouldn’t mortify their precious virgin sensibilities.   
  
The hint of a smile flutters at the corner of the man’s mouth as his lips move in answer to whatever the woman with the sharp, aquiline nose and narrow cautious eyes has asked.   
  
_Old guy’s got some chops, that girl looks to be 10 kinds of dirty._ Dean chuckles to himself and slides out of the booth clearing his throat to let Sammy know it’s time to go.  
  
They make it back to the Impala, the damp night air invigorating after the cloying warmth of the bar. Dean’s key is in the lock when he feels Sam’s hand clutch his bicep.  
  
“Dude, what the fuck was that all about?”  
  
“What was what all about?”   
  
“The jealous _girlfriend_ bullshit.” He spins Dean around and squeezes his hip, pushing him against the car. Sam is emboldened by a few beers and irritated that his brother would doubt his fidelity.   
  
Dean’s anger flares and then burns out within seconds and his chin drops to his chest.   
  
“Dean?” Sam’s voice shifts from anger to concern. “Did you really think I was into that guy?”  
  
“Sammy, can we just go back to the hotel?”  
  
“No, I want to know. Do you seriously think I want anyone else but you?”  
  
“No.” Dean lifts his head and meets Sam’s gaze. “It’s just he’s so…oh, Christ Sam, I don’t know. I don’t know what the rules are, you know? I don’t want anyone else but you, ever. But I don’t want you to miss out on something. Plus I don’t know if you notice, you know, other...” Dean stops his face flushing scarlet, a surge of lonesome jealousy and insecurity catching in his throat. “ _people,_ and that friend of Bobby’s is the total package.”  
  
Sam brushes his fingers across Dean’s cheek and presses him against the car so their bodies are flush against each other.   
  
“Dean, you are such an idiot.” Sam’s arms slide around Dean’s waist as he pulls him into a hug.   
  
“What? Why? Because I’m scared that you’re going to bail on me? Last time I checked it wasn’t exactly an unreasonable fear.”  
  
The barb hooks in Sam’s skin; but he’s adept enough to ignore his brother’s baiting, understanding that a fight takes the focus off Dean’s fear. Sam’s has noticed that Dean’s insecurities are cropping up the closer they get to Vermont and the end, temporary or permanent, to their hunting life. Sam’s time at Stanford gave him some experience living outside the strict laws that govern the life of a hunter; the pathological vigilance and the constant motion. Dean never had that opportunity. In 30-some-odd years Sam knows his brother has never stood still in one place for longer than a few weeks, maybe a couple of precious months when Sam was in high school. Sam watches the pained specter of anxiety that haunts Dean’s eyes when they talk about getting _real_ jobs. It is almost as if Dean believes that if he stops moving, so will the earth and he will careen into space and fall forever, no comfort, only the steel cold night and the emptiness of the stars for company.   
  
Instead of responding with words, Sam begins to reason with Dean using his body; the fluid language of their lovemaking more convincing than anything he could think to say.  
  
Sam’s lips ghost over Dean’s and Dean’s lips part with a hoarse sigh as his hips thrust forward and he grinds his hips against Sam’s growing hardness. His tongue searches out Dean’s and his hand slips behind Dean’s neck, the need in his twitching cock growing with each passing second. Dean’s hand reaches around and gropes Sam’s muscular ass, pulling him closer, his breath coming in harsh, hot bursts, his lungs tight with want, head swimming from the taste of Sam in his mouth.   
  
Sam suckles Dean’s tongue, alternating lapping and nipping at Dean’s offering as he would Dean’s cock. He presses down with just a minuscule amount of pressure from his teeth, giving Dean's tongue a small nip before he throws his head back breaking the kiss. He looks around for an alley, a dark doorway, anywhere where they can be together because he is _not_ going to make back to the hotel.  
  
“Goddammit Sammy.” Dean’s hands grip Sam’s hips, and he licks and bites the tender skin above the crew collar of Sam’s t-shirt leaving a small trail of starburst bruises. “I want you, let’s get out of here.”  
  
Sam’s lips spread into a wicked smile and he drags Dean through an alley to the back of the bar finding recess in the adjacent building that the pallid glow from the streetlights does not reach. Sam shoves Dean against the brick wall and thrusts his thigh between Dean’s legs exerting scrumptious pressure on Dean’s rock hard cock.  
  
Dean gasps and Sam places his palm over the bulge in Dean’s jeans, delighted by the searing heat under his hand. He’s rough, rubbing and squeezing as he uses his other hand to grip Dean’s chin.  
  
“Do you like that baby?” Dean groans and he tries to lean forward and capture Sam’s mouth, but Sam just grips his chin and throbbing dick harder. “I’m sick of your shit, so here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to suck your cock until you are dry, until you are bucking and moaning while I lick your shaft and finger fuck you wide open and then I am going to spin you around and take your ass with my dick until you scream and beg for me to let you come again.”  
  
“I am going to mark you Dean, I’m going to bite and suck and brand you with my cock, with my mouth and with my come because maybe then, I’ll finally prove to you, once and for all, that you are mine and I am yours and anyone who tries to get in between that better bring friends and a whole lot of fire power; because even death can’t keep me from you.”  
  
Dean gasps for breath, his knees buckling under the weight of Sam’s ferocity. Sam crushes his mouth against Dean’s and their tongues battle for dominance while Sam’s deft fingers pop the button on Dean’s jeans and he slides toward the ground, freeing Dean’s pulsing, weeping member from his jeans and boxers. Sam attacks Dean’s cock, plunging it into his mouth, taking Dean all the way in and moaning when heat and hardness brush against the back of his throat.   
  
White streaks of light flash across Dean’s eyelids as he knocks his head back against the brick wall; the pleasure in the velvety heat of Sam’s mouth around him, Sam’s teasing long fingers alternating between massaging his balls and thighs and stroking his entrance. Sam wraps his hand around the base of Dean’s shaft to keep him from going off, allowing the dripping moister from his mouth to bathe his fingers when he has Dean swallowed to the root.   
  
He snakes his hand around to the tight ring of muscle that marks the border of his brother’s most secret entrance and slips one, then two fingers inside. The searing heat of Dean’s body makes him moan with pleasure and anticipation. The vibration on Dean’s cock initiates ripple of heat that starts in Dean’s gut and radiates to his limbs, making his entire body hum with the surge of his building climax. The fullness and motion of Sam’s fingers isn’t enough and he pushes back and down, fucking himself on Sam’s hand while Sam’s tongue laves the head and dripping slit before taking his fullness down his throat once more.  
  
“SammyholyshityourmouthissoFUCKINGHOT.” Sam feels Dean’s dick begin to pulse and tastes the creamy salty-sweet flavor of Dean. It floods his mouth and he swallows Dean’s essence, sunshine and gun oil, the bitter bite of coffee laced with the sugary snap of apple pie. It’s all there, rushing out of Dean into Sam and Dean is bucking into Sam’s mouth, emptying his love into Sam with each thrust of his hips.  
  
Sam rises and licks Dean’s upper lip before capturing his mouth in a rough kiss, letting Dean enjoy the flavor of their union. Sam spins Dean around, pulling his shirt back to get at the thick band of muscle that joins Dean’s neck to the wide yoke of his strong shoulders. Sam uses one hand to free his own painfully hard dick from his jeans while the other finds Dean’s mouth. Dean sucks on his fingers while Sam croons in his ear.  
  
“Oh, that’s right baby. I’m going to fill you until you are screaming my name. Are you hungry for my cock baby, do you want me inside you now? Beg me to fuck you, baby, I want to hear you fucking beg me to come inside you and make you mine.”  
  
Sam’s fingers leave Dean’s mouth and Dean is panting and gulping for air, his voice isn’t working, his limbs thick and burning as if they have been filled with cement and left in the sun to roast. He feels the head of Sam’s dripping shaft press against his hole and the words pore out of him.   
  
“Please Sammy, I’m yours. I Love you, want you to be mine, to be inside me, come with me, and fill me so I know you will never leave me.” His insurmountable need crests and shatters as Sam pushes inside. Dean feeling the sharp sting of that initial penetration, that delicious pressure that means that his Sammy is sliding home, is with him. Tears spring to his eyes and he moans and sobs while pushing back trying to take in as much of Sam as his body will allow.  
  
Sam guides himself in, the tight fire of Dean swallowing him whole and he moves, his teeth buried in Dean’s shoulder, sucking, and biting, until the skin breaks and he tastes a hint of copper on his tongue. Dean cries and Sam’s hand finds its way to his hardened cock and he fists Dean’s dick in time with the frantic thrusts of his hips. He feels Dean’s muscles shake and shudder as they constrict with another orgasm, Dean’s convulsions drawing him over the edge as he throws his mouth open and Dean’s name erupts from the depth of his gut, rocketing on his breath toward heaven.  
  
They lean, spent against the building. Sam pulls himself from Dean and Dean whines at the loss. He reaches down and tugs Sam’s boxers and jeans up over his hips and does the same for himself.   
  
Sam dips his head and kisses Dean, a gentle open-mouthed sigh that Dean breathes into his lungs.   
  
Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s, his fingers stroking Dean’s cheek, carding through Dean’s short, baby-soft hair.  
  
“Do you get it now?”  
  
Dean’s sensuous lips break open in a smile that makes Sam’s heart stutter. “Yeah, I think I do.”  
  
“Good. Hotel?”  
  
“Yeah. Hotel. Shower. Sleep.”  
  
They walk back to the Impala and Dean sees the man Wilson was watching limp across the parking lot toward the bus stop, accompanied by the woman with the hungry look.   
  
The hitch in the man’s step is pronounced and he leans on a cane that boasts racing fire like a classic muscle car. Dean smiles. _Atta boy._ Dean thinks as he unlocks the Impala and slides behind the wheel. He wonders if they should offer the guy a ride somewhere but then figures that would harsh the old dude’s roll and cock blocking a total stranger is just plain rude.  
  
They ride back to their hotel in silence, Sam’s long arm stretched across the bench seat toying with the stubble at the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean decides to forgo the shower and crawls between the sheets. Sam pulls his wallet out and throws a photograph at Dean before he strips down to his boxers.  
  
Dean’s inspects the photo. “Who’s this?”  
  
“That’s Amber Volakis.”  
  
“Is she someone we need to talk to about the vengeful spirit?” The woman’s face is familiar and he closes his eyes trying to remember where he’s seen that sharp nose and the narrowed intense stare before.  
  
“Dude, she _is_ the vengeful spirit.”  
  
Dean’s eyes snap open and he looks at the photo again, recognition dawning as he takes in the face; it is the same face of the woman at the bar earlier. His memory plays back the scene in slow motion, her physical distance and the way she occupied space as if the air around her was pulling back from her pale skin.  
  
“Oh shit Sammy, I think we have a problem.”


	2. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: No specific warnings for this chapter.

“Tell me again.” Sam flips his phone open and scrolls through numbers, thanking God, Castiel, the Metatron, the Easter Bunny, and Santa that he thought to program Robert Chase’s number into his phone earlier in the evening.

“This girl was at the bar tonight, she was all over this older guy, hey wait,” Dean cocks an eyebrow, a flicker of jealousy igniting in his gut as Sam finds the number and hits send “you didn’t program that douche-nozzle into your phone did you?”

Sam rolls his eyes and cuffs Dean on the back of the head, the smack 80% play, 20% when did you turn into such a jealous pain-in-the-ass?. 

“Ow, Dude, what was that for?” Sam is about to tell him exactly what that was for when he hears a sleepy “’Yah” from the receiver. 

“Robert, its Sam Winchester, look, we have a problem, my, uh…Dean saw Amber at the bar tonight.” 

Dean sneers my, uh, Dean in a mock Australian accent that makes him sound more like he’s from South Jersey; Sam slugs him on the shoulder and motions for him to start getting dressed. “She left with a man, Dean said Wilson was kind of watching him. Older guy, walks with a cane that has some kind of fire design on it, salt and pepper hair?” 

Sam listens for a few minutes, the crease between his eyebrows grows deeper and he reaches for a pen. “Shit.” Sam repeats the address and directions to the victim’s condo which is blessedly close to the hotel. “No, stay put, we’ll call you when we know something. You don’t happen to know where she’s buried do you?” Sam shrugs as if Robert were standing in front of him. “If you could find out that would be great. Thanks.”

Sam snaps the phone shut and begins to dress. “Come on Dean, we gotta roll.”

Dean grabs his leather jacket and shrugs into it, resting his hand on the door knob; his face set into an implacable mask, the jealous jibes and playfulness gone, replaced by a stoic determination that takes Sam’s breath away. Sam closes the gap between them and places his hands on either side of Dean’s face, evening stubble rough beneath his fingers. He bends his head and drops a single, chaste kiss on Dean’s luscious cupid-bow of a mouth and pulls away.

“I love you.”

Dean smirks. “I love you too, Samantha.”

Sam clutches Dean’s ass in his palm and squeezes the muscle hard, pulling his brother’s body against his own. Dean hisses, still sore from their ferocious lovemaking earlier. He shudders remembering how Sam claimed him in that alley and a surge of arousal travels the length of his body, spreading a delectable heat through his limbs. 

“Little Sam Winchester.” Dean drawls as he heads out the door toward the Impala. “Who knew you could pull off butch? I always figured you for more of a buy me flowers and paint my toenails kinda girl?” Dean watches his brother blush scarlet as he slides behind the wheel of the Impala.

Sam folds his lanky frame into the car and grabs Dean’s hand off the steering wheel, pressing it to the aching hardness between his legs and squeezing his thighs shut. “Does that feel girly to you?” Sam asks his mouth blooming into a wide, toothy grin. 

Dean had a witty-come back, but it was run off the road by a motorcade of mental pictures involving Sam in various stages of undress and ended up in a ditch somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Dean groans feeling Sam’s warmth under his palm wishing that they were naked and wrapped around each other in bed right now. Hell, Dean thinks, I’d settle for dry-humping in the car.. Another image snaps into his mind’s eye: He and Sam, each of their faces covered with a light sheen of sweat and partially clad making love in the back seat. Sam straddling his lap while facing the front of the car, jeans and boxers in a ball in the foot-well as he rides Dean’s leaking cock; moaning like a porn star and begging Dean to let him come. . 

“Earth to Dean?” Sam releases Dean’s hand and laughs. “Dude, come on, we have a civilian to save.”

Dean adjusts his jeans which are feeling about two sizes too small at the moment and starts the Impala. “Sammy, I’m going to shred you when we get back here.” 

“Awwww, you’re cute when you try to be tough.” Sam teases. 

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They both laugh and Dean pulls out of the parking lot, Sam giving him directions and filling him in on the little he knows about the case as they make the five minute drive to the old guy’s house.

“So this woman, Amber, she was on a bus when it got broadsided. She ended up in a coma and by the time that the trauma center figured out who she was all her organs had started failing and no one could figure out why. Her boyfriend, you met him tonight, that guy Wilson, he had her transferred to PPTH because it has one of the best diagnostic teams in the world. But there had been some jacked up issue with a medication she was taking and they couldn’t do anything to save her. It was a one-in-a-million buy a lottery ticket and don’t get on a plane any time soon kind of thing. When she woke up…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, she woke up? I thought you said she was our vengeful spirit?” 

“Chill, I’m getting there.” Dean waves his hand at Sam urging him to continue. “They had been keeping her in a coma to slow things down, but when it was evident she was going to die, they woke her up to say goodbye. She died in Wilson’s arms, apparently she had gone to help out a buddy of his who was wasted and couldn’t get home. The guy ended up talking Amber into having a few more drinks with him and she decided to take the bus home.” Sam’s takes a deep breath before he lets Dean in on the weirdest part of this story. 

“According to Robert, it was that guy you saw in the bar tonight. He and Wilson used to be best friends.” 

Dean now understands the loss he saw in Wilson’s face and his heart clenches. He remembers the smell of wet earth and blood as Sam’s life flowed out of him onto a rutted and pocked stretch of dirt road in the tiny Midwestern town. Sam’s body laying, lifeless on a dirty, bare mattress, the rough-hewn wood of an old dining room chair digging into Dean’s palms as he begged for his little brother to help him; tell him what to do. Tears swell and spill down his cheeks as Sam’s fingers card through his short, spiked hair. 

“Dean.” Sam’s breath hitches in his chest and the sound is enough to let Dean know, without taking his eyes off the road, that Sam is lost in his own terrifying memories. Dean reaches up and takes Sam’s hand, weaving their fingers together and squeezing hard to reinforce the reality of their connection in this moment.

“That…” Dean pauses to steady his voice. “That. Sucks. Ass. AND they woke her up just to tell her she was going to die? What the fuck is that, man? I’d come back and haunt their moronic asses too.”

“I’d want to say goodbye to you.” Sam says; his voice quiet and tinged with sadness.

“Sam, you know that’s not what I mean. I’d want to say goodbye to you too, but I wouldn’t want you to be afraid or in pain.” Sam’s face, hard-etched with agony and confusion, rises to the surface of Dean’s thoughts and he shakes his head. “I couldn’t put you through that.” 

They make the rest of the drive without speaking, the growl of the Impala carrying the men’s silence on its broad steel frame. They park across the street from a two-story town-house. The lights in the living room are on and the curtains are wide open. 

“Did your boyfriend say if this guy had a name?

“Name’s Greg House and you are such an ass.”

“Well, it looks like Greg’s home.” A piano is visible through the living room window and they watch as Greg House leans over the keys head tilted sideways as if he is straining to understand the language of hammer and string. “What do you think, Sam?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like we can waltz up to his door and…”

“Wait a fucking minute!” Dean turns to Sam, realization dawning on his face. 

“Glad you decided to join the class.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as if the whole situation is boring a hole in his brain.

“This guy knows that woman is a ghost?”


	3. Sleeping and Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to substance abuse, depression, and mental illness.

“They’re watching you.” Amber lounges on the couch, legs tucked under her thighs, hand stroking the cushion, if House tilts his head to the left he imagines he can hear the soft brush of her skin against the nap of the fabric.  
  
“There is no one watching me. Technically, you aren’t even watching me.” He leans further into the melody. House loves the perfection of music. Music’s simplicity astounds him. It is one of the few things left in this world that still allows him a sense of awe. Press a key and a hammer strikes a string; the string vibrates and voila, you have sound. If the sound doesn’t resonate at the right pitch, then tighten or loosen the string. Diagnostics in its most elementary form, _A + B = C_.   
  
As his foot presses the pedal to modulate the chords, he feels a stab of pain in his thigh. House reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic pill bottle. He pops the top, slams back a pill, closes the bottle, re-deposits it in his pocket, and resumes playing in one perfect fluid motion that displays a mastery of muscular efficiency.  
  
“I guess I could say that I’m watching me.” He riffs on a C-minor chord. “You, on the other hand are simply me, in my most bitchy incarnation.”   
  
“I’m not you.”   
  
“I beg to differ. And if you are Amber, which you are not, then you should go haunt Wilson. I’m sure he’d appreciate this Blithe Spirit routine.” House leans into the keys focusing his attention on the music while he waits for the Vicodin to take the edge off the vice-like tightening in his leg.   
  
“They’re watching you right now, those two men who were with Chase in the bar; they are outside in the street waiting and watching.”  
  
“Why aren’t you naked?”  
  
“They believe I’m real.”  
  
“If you are a hallucination, why aren't you naked?” House cocks an eyebrow pondering this question with the care and precision that he applies to every conundrum medical and mundane that happens to find itself in the crosshairs of his scrutiny. Nakedness would add an interesting dimension to this pedantic, repetitious conversation. House narrows his eyes and stares at Amber willing her pale beige sweater set and black skirt to melt from her body.   
  
“It’s not going to work, because I’m not a hallucination.” Amber rolls her eyes and sighs.   
  
“Yes you are.”  
  
“So I guess the car parked across the street is a hallucination, too?”  
  
House turns to look out the window and sees the black muscle car parked on the opposite side of the street. He can make out two figures sitting in the front seat of the car. He cannot tell if it is the same men he saw earlier that evening, but figures the odds of two identical classic cars trolling around in his wake is too high. Besides he does not believe in coincidence, because, well because he is House and the universal laws of cause and effect are as close to religious dogma as he is willing to get.  
  
“Nope, that looks real to me.” House smiles and waves then turns back to the piano. He launches into a bluesy rendition of _Feeling Good_. A few minutes later he hears the growl of the car’s engine as it starts up and fades down the block.   
  
“I told you so.”  
  
“That’s no great mystery. I saw them at the bar and then again when I left. The car is a beauty and that engine isn’t too hard to miss. I must have heard it again when they pulled up outside.”  
  
“Aren’t you curious as to why they were out there?”  
  
“Yes.” The Vicodin starts to blur his senses. If House were a praying man, which he is not, he would be praying that the drugs will allow him to float into a blissful, chemical induced slumber. He has not so much slept, as dozed for a few minutes here and there since Lawrence Kutner committed suicide.   
  
“They’re here to stop me.”  
  
“Stop you from what?”  
  
“Stop me from destroying you.” Amber chuckles. It rumbles in her throat with a sinister snarl and sends a chill rippling across House’s skin.   
  
“I wasn’t aware I was that self destructive?”  
  
“Oh, you are _that_ self-destructive, but that isn’t what this is about.”  
  
“What then?” He looks up from the piano to find himself alone, his hands motionless on the keys, the last chord hanging in the air. House shrugs, tugs the bottle from his pocket and pops another pill. Amber has been his constant companion for days and he relishes the absence of her running commentary. He hobbles toward his bedroom where he will lie in the dark, dissecting the day’s events; the appearance of these strange men and the revelation of his hallucinatory self. Does he wish to destroy himself? He turns it over and tears at it until he drifts into a fitful, dreamless half-sleep just before dawn floods his room with the weak, gun-metal blue light of morning.  
  
***  
  
Greg House turns from the piano looking straight at the Impala and waves then turns back to the piano and resumes playing  
  
“Huh?” Dean grunts.  
  
“Dude, I think he knows we’re here.”  
  
“What do we do now?” Dean’s not sure he wants to waltz up to this guy’s door without a clearer picture of what they are dealing with, in light of the whole hanging out with dead people issue.   
  
“It doesn’t look like he’s in trouble, maybe we hang back until we figure out what’s what.” A tingle of trepidation pricks at the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck.   
  
“I don’t like this.” Dean’s jaw clenches and Sam recognizes a mirror of his own anxiety in the tense set of Dean’s shoulders.   
  
“Me neither.”   
  
Dean twists the key in the ignition and the Impala thunders to life. Dean steers her back toward the hotel while Sam calls to let Chase know that Greg House is still alive and kicking.  
  
By the time they drag-ass back to the hotel its 2AM and the weight of the hour is pulling Sam’s eyelids closed. He stumbles into the room and begins to undress for bed while Dean checks the salt lines and sigils. Sam bends to slide his jeans and boxer-briefs down and lets out a surprised yelp as he is toppled face first onto the bed, Dean’s body blankets his and pins him against the scratchy, polyester blend comforter.  
  
“Dean, it’s two in the morning.” Sam’s complains even though press of Dean’s erection against his ass causes a jolt of warmth to flood Sam’s limbs.  
  
Dean pulls Sam’s hands above his head and holds his wrists still in one hand while his other hand snakes between Sam’s thighs and palms his balls, rolling the flesh for a moment and then giving the sac a gentle tug.   
  
Sam groans.   
  
“That’s more like it baby.” Dean grinds against Sam and Sam’s legs open further to allow Dean’s hand to move with greater freedom. Dean slides sideways and Sam moans from the loss of Dean’s warmth and weight.   
  
Dean strokes Sam’s naked body from his neck to the cleft of his bare ass, reveling in the way Sam’s breath quickens with each pass of his hand. After the ferocity of their earlier encounter, Dean wants to take this slow, to show Sam he understood the message that Sam scrawled across Dean’s heart with his mouth, his body and his breath. Words that mean little to Dean when spoken and everything when acted upon; phrases like _you belong_ and _you deserve_ are alive inside him because of Sam’s patience and kindness. Life and death have torn at Dean again and again and when Dean finally sought comfort in Sam’s body, he found an eternal redemption he had not dared to dream existed for them both.   
  
“You are so goddamn gorgeous. Do you know that Sammy?” He pushes Sam’s hip, guiding Sam onto his back. He cups Sam’s cheek in his palm and whispers against his lips.   
  
“Mine.”   
  
Sam’s mouth opens in a yielding sigh. “Yours.”   
  
Dean releases Sam’s hands and stands to remove his clothes. Sam pushes himself up on his elbows and watches Dean peel off his t-shirt, jeans, and boxers. Sam doubts he will ever tire of seeing his lover naked, arousal causing Dean’s cock to burn crimson with his blood. The straining hardness brushes against Sam’s leg as Dean crawls up the length of his body and both men moan together as velvet steel meets velvet steel and they begin to roil and undulate against each other like the surface of the ocean before a storm. Sam drags his fingers up and down Dean’s spine, pressing hard enough for Dean to feel the scrape of his nails against his skin.   
  
“Tell me what you want.” Sam gasps as Dean’s hot, wet breath ghosts against the shell of his ear. “I want to hear it, Sammy. I want you to tell me how you want to be loved.” The unrestrained need that Dean has laid bare, the staggering amount of trust that his brother has just placed in his hands makes Sam’s heart stutter.   
  
“I want you to watch me Dean; watch me stretch myself open for you. I want you to witness what you do to me and then I want to feel you to fill me until I don’t know where I end and you begin.” Sam pushes Dean away and spreads his legs wide. He slips three fingers in his mouth, licking and coating them with his own salvia, moaning around his hand as if it were Dean’s cock heavy on his tongue. His eyes are trained on Dean who is staring, transfixed as Sam’s other hand moves to gently tease his cock head with a squeeze and then slides his palm along the shaft.  
  
Dean’s pupil’s are blown wide with desire, obscuring the beautiful moss green that Sam cherishes and his mouth falls open, his chest heaving as Sam bends his knees and enters himself with one finger, then two, then three, twisting his wrist and swirling his fingers around his most intimate of spaces, teasing the puckered outer skin and then plunging his fingers past the tight ring of muscle. “Oh God, Dean.” Sam whimpers and Dean can not, will not wait another second to burry himself in his Sammy.  
  
Dean moves to retrieve a bottle of lube from his duffle and Sam stops him, his voice hoarse with lust. “No Dean, just you. I want nothing between us. I need to feel every inch of you as you enter me, every ridge and vein in your beautiful cock.”  
  
Dean crawls between Sam’s legs and feels Sam’s hands, still wet with his own sweat, salvia, and pre-come slide down the length of his shaft. Dean lines his cock-head up with Sam’s entrance and begins to push, their eyes locked. Sam is so relaxed and open that he feels only a delicious burn and pressure as Dean pushes into his body, filling him until Dean is sheathed in Sam to the root. Both men pant and gasp trying to fill their lungs, neither able to capture a full breath. Then Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s waist and pulls him just that fraction of an inch closer and feels the head of Dean’s cock brush against the electric bundle of nerves inside his body and a single word erupts from his mouth.  
  
“Move.”  
  
The rasping desire in Sam’s voice breaks the honey-thick spell of the moment and Dean slides out and back in unable to control the jutting, rapid cadence of his hips. One hand strokes Sam’s abdomen and the other clutches Sam’s hip.  
  
“SofuckingbeautifulSammy, Godyouaresofuckingbeautiful.” Dean chants as he feels his climax building, a delectable sweetness that gathers in his loins and rushes beneath the surface of his skin. Sam’s hand wraps around his own shaft and Dean moves the hand that was stroking Sam’s chest and stomach and cover’s Sam’s hand. Together they bring each other to the height of pleasure, Sam crashing into his orgasm and Dean rocketing over the edge seconds after.  
  
Dean collapses on Sam’s chest, easing himself from his lover’s body, kissing Sam’s eyelids, his lips, his nose, his cheeks.   
  
“Love.” Gasp. “You.” Gasp. “Sammy.”  
  
Sam props himself on an elbow and traces the contour of Dean’s chest, a bright, satisfied smile lighting his face. “Either you’re out of shape or I’m just that good.”  
  
Sam snickers snatching Dean’s t-shirt from the floor and wipes them both down. Dean lifts his head for a moment as if he means to get up and then collapses again in a panting puddle of blissful sexual satisfaction.  
  
“Sammy, baby, you are just that good.”   
  
“Dude, that was _so_ the right answer.” Sam shoves Dean over and maneuvers them both under the covers. He nestles his head in the crook of Dean’s neck, throws his thigh over Dean’s hips and an arm over Dean’s chest tangling his brother in his slender, muscular limbs.  
  
“Mmmm.” Dean hums. His voice is groggy and clogged with sleep as he floats on the border of consciousness. “Looks like I’m being held captive by Sasquatch.”   
  
“I love you Dean.”  
  
“Me too, baby. Now shhhh. It’s sleeping time.”  
  
Sam rubs his face against Dean’s neck and lets his eyes fall shut. An image of Greg House, alone, bent over a piano rises to the surface of his consciousness and Sam wonders at the depth of loneliness that would compel a man to embrace the hollow company of a woman in whose death he played an indirect, yet starring role. Sam shivers a tendril of sadness for this crippled, broken man curling around the base of his spine.  
  
Dean, aware of his Sammy even in sleep, wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him tighter and Sam drifts off to the sound of Dean’s gentle snores and the rock-solid rhythm of his beating, faithful heart.

 


	4. Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to substance abuse.

7:00 AM.   
  
House’s morning consciousness eddies and swirls like dust motes that have been stirred by the frenzied rush of children as they race in and out of a quiet room. He shifts position, rolling onto his back and feels a ripping spike of pain course down his bad leg. The initial shot is followed by a dull ache chaser, five-and-a-half on a scale of one to ten. It is a pain that seeps into his bones and clutches at the muscles of his lower back. This is how every morning starts. The Vicodin used to help, but it does not any more. No relief. No. Relief. House snatches the bottle off his night stand, slams back a pill, and massages his thigh.  
  
“It’s a little early for a bad day.” Amber curls herself into a ball at the foot of House’s bed.  
  
“You know, if you are going to crawl into bed with me, the least you can do is throw on a teddy or something, the lab coat really isn’t a turn on.”  
  
“Have you thought about what I said last night?”   
  
“About you not being a hallucination or you destroying my life?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And?” Amber raises herself to her hands and knees and slinks toward him; House is reminded of his grandmother’s cat. Felix? Ferdinand? House remembers the cool unguarded grace of that animal as it paced the rim of the tub while he soaked in a bath of ice water, his punishment for making it to the dinner table one minute past the prescribed dinner hour. That cat would stare at him while his teeth ground together, clattering against each other like the bones of old men. House remembers the animal had eyes as implacable as his grandmother’s petty cruelties and his father’s banal tortures.  
  
“My Oma had a cat named Ferdinand.” House swings his legs over the side of the bed, sucks in a deep breath to brace against the onslaught of pain he knows will come.   
  
“What does that have to do with me?”  
  
“It doesn’t. But I remembered it and it was far more interesting than listening to my over-dressed subconscious twitter about its evil plans to subdue me. Boooorrringggg.”  
  
***  
  
8:00 AM  
  
Dean rolls over and wraps an arm around Sam’s waist, nuzzling the nape of his brother’s neck while tracing circles over Sam’s taught, bare abdomen. Sam purrs and snuggles closer to Dean enjoying the firm musculature of Dean’s chest pressed against his back. Dean’s fingers slide lower teasing the soft trail of hair that begins at Sam’s navel and disappears in the coarse tuft of curls that cradle Sam’s cock.   
  
“Dean this is not conducive to sleeping or ghost bani….” Dean slides his hand over the tender skin on Sam’s hip then home, wrapping his warm palm around Sam’s shaft, steel that’s searing with blood and heat. Dean’s hips jut forward, grinding against Sam’s ass as he fists Sam’s cock thumbing the slit and slicking the sensitive skin with the thick beads of pearlescent fluid dripping from its tip.   
  
Sam whimpers, a sweet pressure gathers in his gut as Dean whispers, hot breath ghosting across the shell of his ear. “Yeah, oh fuck Sam _yourcockfeelsgoddamnincredible_ ”  
  
Sam hand reaches back and grips Dean’s hip, pulling Dean closer, Dean’s hardness pressing against his bare ass.   
  
“You want my mouth baby, or do you want me inside you when you come.” Dean groans.  
  
“Inside.” Sam keens as he shifts his leg forward and Dean pushes Sam’s top leg forward and releases Sam’s dick to slick his most secret entrance with the slick fluid from Sam’s weeping cock. Dean’s fingers stretch and tease Sam as his brother pushes back onto his hand, his breath coming in panting bursts.   
  
Sam’s hand snakes down between his own legs and Dean growls in his ear. “No.” Dean slips inside and gasps as he feels the velvet tightness close around him. Dean pushes until he is buried in Sam to the root then grasps his lover’s cock one more time.  
  
They start to move together, rocking against each other, guiding one another toward ecstasy. Dean shudders and clutches at his lover as if gravity has ceased to exist and the only tether keeping him pinned to the earth is Sam's body. The heaviness in his tightening balls is the only warning he gets before he erupts. A second later Sam comes with a ferocious, unintelligible shout. It is a carnal, primal sound; an utterance that pre-dates language and captures the savage tenderness that exists when two bodies collide with the full force of the natural word crushing them together.   
  
Dean nips at Sam’s earlobe. “Morning, baby.”  
  
Sam chuckles and turns toward Dean, running his finger across Dean’s cheek, stroking his hair, forehead, lips, and neck like he is attempting to memorize the texture of Dean’s skin.  
  
“Shower. Coffee. House.”  
  
“Shower?” Dean’s lip tugs into a half-smirk that causes Sam’s toes to tingle.   
  
“No. You. Stay. Here. That’s the third time in less than 24-hours, are you trying to kill me? Plus we have a job. Remember? The job? A bad ghost scaring good people and a blonde Australian that makes you all bitchy like a 13-year-old girl. Ringing any bells, dude?”  
  
“Sammy.” Dean draws out the “y” and Sam wonders how a name that he used to associate with his chubby 12-year-old self can sound so _dirty_ and _God help him, hot_ when it drips off his brother’s lips.   
  
Sam rolls out of bed, his cock is half hard again and he starts to ponder how much sex is _too much_. But then he looks over his shoulder and sees Dean lying in bed with the sheet riding low on his hips, a satisfied glowing smile painting his features with light and he stops caring about _too much_ because he just wants to lather Dean’s honey-toned skin and feel the sensation of their bodies gliding against each other.   
  
“Well, are you coming or not?” Sam calls back over his shoulder as he makes his way into the bathroom. He is not surprised at the squeak of bedsprings and the wicked chuckle.  
  
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my awesomeness and attractiveness.”   
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Please don’t quote Kung Fu Panda before, after, or during sex. It’s kind of creepy.”  
  
***  
  
9:00 AM  
  
Amber hears House lumbering in the kitchen, making morning sounds that accompany the physical sensations of being alive. Sensations that she never thought to cherish; the liquid whoosh of brewing coffee making her mouth water in anticipation of the bitter snap against her tongue, the damp steaming heat bathing her face as she leans in close to the cup to inhale the dark, earthy scent.  
  
She has memory; the delicious pressure of Wilson’s hands clutching her hips as they made love, the delicate scent of freesia from her favorite soap, and the flutter in her gut when Greg House would turn his ferocious intellect toward her during a diagnosis.   
  
That Amber, the one that loved the taste of coffee and the crunch of toast, the one that relished the smell of Wilson’s aftershave, that Amber is gone.   
  
Amber remembers these experiences, but now, when House looks at her, there is no gut to flutter because she possesses no viscera, she holds nothing, is nothing but an echo. She exists in stasis.   
  
She experiences the loss but can’t _feel_ it. She even yearns to feel the wicked gaping hole of emptiness that accompanies despair. Amber is now pure, driven emotion unhindered by physical need or conscience. Amber desires. Amber consumes. And Amber will have her revenge before she fades and dissipates into the air like cold breath in a fog.  
  
***  
  
10:00 AM  
  
The Impala rumbles into the hospital parking lot.

  
“Are you sure about this?” Dean does not like this plan. He is concerned that this Dr. House is way more than just the ruined, emotional wasteland that Dr. Chase swore he was this morning when they told him about what they observed the previous evening. Dr. Chase had been dismissive, then doubtful, and finally bone terrified of the implications of House being haunted, by Amber no less.  
  
“Yeah, it seems the safest place to talk to him, don’t you think? Robert said the signs are the weakest here.”  
  
“Oh _Robert_ does, does he?”  
  
“Dude really, let it go.”  
  
“Fine. But I get House, you go talk to that Wilson guy.”  
  
The doors to the Impala creak open and they head inside. Dean reaches House’s office and Sam gives him the _try not to intimidate, beat, or anger the man with the hotline to the ghost world_. Dean’s lips spread into an answering smile that is ½ half bravado and ½ lust. Sam shakes his head and continues down the hall to find Wilson.  
  
The office door and walls are made of glass and Dean can see the man from the previous night tossing a red and gray ball in the air on the crook of his cane. He knocks once and enters the room and the man tosses the ball toward Dean, who catches it with ease.  
  
“Good reflexes.”  
  
“Thanks.” Dean stands still, assessing the intellect that sparkles in this man’s glacier blue eyes.  
  
“And you are?”  
  
“Dean Winchester. I’m told you’re having a problem with a former employee.”


	5. Meeting of the Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to substance abuse.

_I’m told you’re having a problem with a former employee_  
  
The words hang in the air between the two men like the scent of lilies after a graveside service; it is the cloying scent of grief that drifts between markers once the mourners have departed and the earth above the burial mound has been tamped down to blanket the dead.   
  
House considers his earlier conversation with his hallucinatory companion. This is definitely the young man who was with Chase and Wilson the previous evening. He recognizes him from the bar. House is certain that this is same young man who had staked out his house later last night. The one that Amber warned him about, but Amber is nothing more than a hallucination. She is repressed grief mixed with a dash of guilt and heaping tablespoon of Vicodin toxicity. And he was drunk, of course, that was kind of a given. A man cannot be expected to hallucinate sober.   
  
A twinge in his thigh causes House to wince. He massages his leg; the bone-deep ache in his ravaged muscle causes his fingers to itch for the comforting weight of that blessed little bottle in his jacket pocket. House reaches for his pills under the scrutinizing eye of the young man before him and witnesses a flicker of _recognition_? Danger trills along his spine because it is as if Dean Winchester is seeing straight past the lead-lined ramparts of pain that he has erected. Dean Winchester looks at him as if he knows him; knows him in a way that no one else knows him; not Stacy, not Cuddy, not even Wilson.   
  
Wilson. God, he misses Wilson, misses Wilson and Wilson’s cooking. House pops a second pill because he is relatively certain now that he is suffering a full-blown psychotic episode.  
  
“Hey, Valley of the Dolls, did you hear me?” Dean eases into the chair in front of House’s desk. “I think you have a problem and my brother and I can help; either that or you’re dabbling in something that is going to end up munching on your eyeballs for breakfast, in which case, you deserve what you get.”  
  
Dean had not meant to go straight for the jugular. He thinks for a second that Sam might have had a point about the whole _don't piss off the guy who may or may not be a genius doctor and necromancer all in one crabby package_. But as much as Dean saw Wilson’s sorrow the night before, in House he recognizes the faintest shadow of Hell that he saw in his own reflection those few first months after Castiel dragged him topside. It is the way Greg House slams back his pills and the barely restrained anger that sparks in his glacier blue eyes. It is as if Dean is looking into a mirror image of his own despair or the ferocious tenacity that his father wore as a badge of honor and the constant scowl that kept his sons and the rest of the world at bay until the day he died.  
  
“Did Cuddy put you up to this? House feigns disinterest and begins to surf for a suitable, and by suitable he thinks loud, porn site. Nothing sends people fleeing from his office faster than the sound of Jenna Jameson screeching through an orgasm.   
  
“Who’s Cuddy?” Dean cocks his head to the side and smirks as the room is filled with the sound of moaning and tortured guitar rifs. “Dude, if I thought that being a doctor meant you could watch porn all day I wouldn’t have dropped out of high school.”  
  
House’s lip curls into a wry smile in spite of his annoyance. He studies Dean. The stiffness in his jaw muscle, the twitch and strain of sinew beneath the skin and the spark of wisdom and wit in the younger man’s eyes; even without Amber hovering over his shoulder House perceives that Dean is a threat.   
  
Dean strides around the desk and leans over House’s shoulder, heedless of personal space. “Nice rack, not really my type though. I like leggy brunettes, all brains and repressed kink. Makes for a boat load of fun, yeah?”  
  
House does not know whether he wants to beat the young man to death with his cane or offer him a drink from the bottle of scotch hidden in his credenza.   
  
Dean leans on the desk facing away from the computer and stares down at House, shrugging his shoulders.  
  
“Come on, man? I’m talking about last night’s booty call, you know: 5’10”, sexy in that _cut throat, I’ll eat your spleen but you’ll thank me for it later_ kind of way, dated your former best friend, and, oh yeah, is D-E-A-D, dead.”   
  
Dean watches the man’s face collapse for the briefest of moments before he schools his rugged features into a disdainful mask and Dean’s spidey-sense starts to tingle.  
  
“Holy shit, you don’t think she’s real?”  
  
“I have work to do.” House rises from his chair, intending to push past Dean and get away to a place where he can think. He can’t remember mentioning Amber’s recent “appearances” to anyone but he had to have at some point because the alternative is ludicrous.  
  
Dean places a hand in the center of House’s chest. The expression on House’s face would normally make Dean chuckle. House is an arrogant bastard, but Dean senses that this man is as close to shattering beneath the crushing weight of constant physical and emotional pain as he was only a month ago.  
  
“You should be afraid. She’s fixated on you, which means she won’t stop until you’re in the ground. My brother and I can help you. Please, let us help you.”  
  
House shoves Dean’s hand aside and stalks out of his office, desperate to be away from here and anywhere devoid of strangers and death. He yearns to be anywhere but inside his own skin, where the strangeness born from years of pain now threatens his intellect. Stripped of his intellect House knows he is nothing but an addict and cripple, a useless bag of flesh and blood as common as a fly.   
  
House reaches his door as Talb approaches him with that pathetic hangdog expression that means the MRI turned up squat and 13 may actually be right. House’s attention turns toward this latest puzzle and he experiences the comforting surge of excitement as he begins to shift the pieces of this diagnostic around in his mind. The fear that froze his gut a few seconds before thaws once he is no longer pinned beneath Dean Winchester’s gaze.  
  
13 trots up behind Talb and blurts “MRI was negative, I’m running an ANA to rule out...”  
  
“When are you children ever going to learn?” House grumps as he hobbles toward the elevators, his team in tow. “It’s never lupus.”


	6. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to child abuse and neglect in reference to John Winchester's parenting. References to substance use.

Sam hears Impala’s radio blaring James Hetfield’s growling baritone as he strides toward the car. Sam stands behind the car for a moment and watches Dean drum the steering wheel and rock in time to the music. Warmth radiates through Sam’s chest at the sight of his brother so relaxed, the literal weight of the world no longer grinding his bones to dust. Sam shudders at the thought of the future they avoided by having the courage to love each other.   
  
A shadow passes across the sun and Sam feels the specter of fear flit across the surface of his thoughts like the faintest of breezes stirring the water of a still lake; for a moment Sam sees Dean, beaten and broken kneeling in an empty field and knows that this was the end that Lilith intended. The sun emerges, bathing Sam’s face in light and he shakes his head to release the vision. _Not a vision of what’s to come_ Sam thinks as he closes the short distance between himself and the car and a voice, the same one that has breathed life and courage into his heart since he and Dean became lovers, whispers across the expanse of his skin and into his heart _Only what could have been, but no more._  
  
“Hey, Sammy you okay?” Sam realizes he has frozen with his hand on the door handle and Dean has risen from the car and is staring at him with concern wrinkling his brow.  
  
“Yeah.” Sam lips bloom into a blinding smile. “Yeah, I’m great. Just...” Sam grasps at the words to explain this _connection_ he feels to his brother, to life, and to God.  
  
“I know.” Dean answers with his own quirky grin that makes Sam’s heart begin to rattle against his rib cage with desire. “Now get in, I’m starving.”   
  
“Dude, _Enter Sandman_?”  
  
“Metallica rules. I can’t help it if you have an affinity for music made by no talent douche bags and can’t recognize real talent when you hear it.”  
  
“Talent? Come on man, the drummer looks like that kid from Boise that you forced into drinking his own pee.”  
  
Dean snorts.   
  
“Dean, that wasn’t funny.” Sam bites the inside of his cheek to suppress the laughter bubbling in his chest. He remembers what a bully the kid had been; he had knocked a nine-year-old Sam off a swing set during lunch recess. The young tough’s biggest mistake had been that the middle school and grade school shared a play ground and a 13 year old Dean Winchester had witnessed the incident and stormed onto the scene like an avenging Norse God.  
  
“I didn’t so much _force_ him, as much as I strongly suggested that he do it as an alternative to having me rearranging his facial features.” Dean starts the car and his laughter dies. He looks in Sam’s eyes before backing out of the parking space his expression fading from amused to serious. “Besides, he hurt you.”  
  
Sam squeezes Dean’s thigh enjoying the feel of the taught muscle beneath the denim of his blue jeans.  
  
“Things were bad enough, between dad being gone all the time and the closet monster; you were like a cat in a room full of rockers. You didn’t need some dick hassling you too.” Dean adds, huffing out a breath and turning out of the hospital parking lot.  
  
“Dean, it’s okay. I get it. I love that you protected me. I love you.”   
  
“I love you too.” Dean laces his fingers through Sam’s and drives toward the hotel.   
  
“That closet monster was gross.” Sam’s voice is distant, his usual vibrant tenor muted by memory.   
  
Dean snorts. “No kidding, do you remember how hard it was getting that fucking slime out of all your clothes?”  
  
“And it smelled so bad. You puked your guts out when I shot it.”  
  
“I did not.”  
  
“Oh Dean, you so puked. That’s why dad made you clean everything up and do extra hand-to-hand drills the next day so you wouldn’t forget to hold your stomach in a crisis.”  
  
Both men are silent for a moment, remembering Sam’s first conscious encounter with the family business and their father’s dogged determination to protect them, even if it cost them their childhoods. The silence between them is heavy with memory, weighted and thick like the air before a summer storm.  
  
Sam speaks first, breaking the silence. “Anyway, Metallica still sucks.”  
  
Dean shakes his head and laughs, releasing the last bit of tension from his shoulders. “Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. What am I going to do with you?”  
  
“Pull over and I’ll show you.” Sam lets the innuendo drip off his tongue like honey.  
  
“Don’t we have a pissed off spirit to salt and burn?”  
  
“Now who’s all work and no play? Come on, Dean.” Sam slides his hand out of Dean’s and snakes it up under the hem of Dean’s shirt, tickling the light golden trail of hair that leads from Dean’s navel to his hardening cock.   
  
“Let’s go for a little drive, we have some time. I asked Robert to get me directions to her burial plot; we swing by after dark, dig her up, salt, burn, and be back at the hotel in time for that ridiculous hospital show.”  
  
“Hey, man, Dr. Sexy is a total…” Dean’s voice tapers off into a soft groan as Sam’s hand glides from beneath the hem of his shirt to his growing arousal, palming the hardness and heat with gentle but insistent pressure.   
  
Dean spots the entrance to a large city park and swerves off the main road, while Sam chuckles. “God you’re easy.”   
  
Dean ignores Sam's comment and follows the winding park road to what he assumes is the last parking lot farthest from the park entrance. The lot is no more than a graveled clearing that would accommodate about eight regular cars. The space is bordered by a number of trail heads over grown by spiny thickets and choked with dried leaves and fallen branches. Dean spots an old service road he assumes is used by park staff but looks deserted on this random weekday in the midmorning. The further they drive the denser the tree lines become and Dean suspects that no one will be able to spot the car through the undergrowth, although from the detritus of winter decay Dean doubts most people venture this far into the park.  
  
Dean bends over Sam and pops the glove box retrieving his box of cassettes.  
  
Sam runs his tongue over the shell of Dean’s ear. “Wanna make out?”  
  
Dean cheeks flush and Sam feels his blood pound in his ears as Dean ducks his head and focuses on shoving a battered tape in the Impala’s old cassette player. “Hey, what’s with the shy routine?” Sam traces a finger along Dean’s cheek.   
  
Dean leans into Sam and brushes his lips against his brother’s velvet mouth. “Shut up Sam.”  
  
“Nuh-huh.” Sam backs off and slouches against the door. “I know that _shut up Sam_ way too well. Spill it?”  
  
“Dude, can we just make out and not talk each other to death.”   
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Fine, but you have to promise not to laugh, or to deck me.”  
  
Sam’s eyes widen. “I swear.”  
  
“Cross your heart.”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Cross your heart Sam or no chick flick moment for you.” Dean quirks an eyebrow and Sam crosses his heart wondering if he should throw some salt at Dean or maybe say a few words in Latin just to make sure his lover has not been possessed in the past half an hour.  
  
“It’s kind of a fantasy of mine, you know, you and me, in the car.” Dean’s face turns a deep scarlet and Sam can’t figure out what on earth is causing Dean to turn into a gushing teenager, it’s not like they haven’t kissed in the car or gotten raunchy and naked on and around it for that matter.  
  
“It has been for a while, you know, since before.” And Sam hears the guilt and knows that _before_ means before Stanford, before their world was torn asunder by heaven and hell. They have discussed the attraction they felt for each other in the year leading up to Sam’s departure, but Sam never understood how that weighed on his brother’s conscience. Sam had chocked up his own feelings as stemming from their isolated childhood and his sense of misplaced hero worship. He had sprinted toward Stanford and a normal life without turning to look back at the wreckage he was abandoning or the reality of his own feelings. He wonders now how alone and desperate his brother had to have felt and Sam’s stomach rolls at the thought of the self-loathing and fear that had driven his lover for so long.  
  
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean’s voice gentles, as if he is calming a skittish colt and Sam realizes that he is crying and Dean is stroking his hair from his face as one would a child suffering from a nightmare. “I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to the hotel.”  
  
“Dean. No. I was just thinking about how lonely you must of have been and what a selfish bastard I was. I didn’t just run away from this life Dean, I ran away from you and when I think about what a coward I was, how much we could have had…I make myself sick.”   
  
“Sam, you were 17, just a kid.”  
  
“Well, so were you once and you didn’t bail.”  
  
“I’m crazy Sammy, remember?” Although Dean laces his tone with brevity, Sam hears the subtext, the words Dean would never say to him outright, _how could I have left when you were the only home I’ve ever known, the only normal I’ve ever wanted._   
  
“Okay, enough of this bullshit.” Sam scrubs his hand over his face, wiping away the tears. “Dean, I love you, I know we still have work to do and I know this, us,” He waves at the space between them. “is still really new. But there is a hell of a lot of water that’s flowed under this bridge and sometimes it’s going to wash up stuff that we both thought had floated down river a long time ago. But I swear to you now, I am going to spend every remaining day of this life finding ways to remind you how incredible you are and what a gift your life has been to me. Fooling around in this car was as much a fantasy of mine, you know that, right? So bring it on baby, let’s get the Impala a’rockin.”  
  
“Really?” Dean’s voice is hopeful.  
  
“Really. Do you remember when I caught Candy Milo giving you blow job in the back seat?”   
  
Dean chuckles, a grumbling throaty sound that strokes and caresses a primal urge deep in Sam’s belly.  
  
“What the hell do you think I jerked off to for the next year? Jesus, I sent away for the catalogs from Stanford when I realized I couldn’t fucking come without imaging your mouth wrapped around my dick. I thought I was a freak.”  
  
“You were. But you weren’t alone.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
Dean punches the cassette tape and the hard strains of an electric guitar and a rasping voice fills the car.  
  
_Oh - thinkin' about all our younger years  
There was only you and me   
We were young and wild and free   
  
Now nothin' can take you away from me   
We bin down that road before   
But that's over now   
You keep me comin' back for more_  
  
“Bryan Adams? You have got to be kidding me?” Sam laughs the last of his sadness replaced by how simple, how pure his brother’s fantasy was. Dean always came off as the _tie me up with a bottle of Jack Daniels, and an array of kitchen utensils_ kind of adventursome guy in bed, it still amazes Sam how much he underestimated and dismissed his brother's want for _normal_ things as well. “You really want to just make out, don’t you?”  
  
“Yeah, dude, I used to listen to this all the time after you went away. I would ditch dad for a few hours, park somewhere and imagine what it would be like to not be your brother, to not be a Winchester and how it would feel to kiss you.” Dean’s lips are a fraction of an inch from Sam's own and he can smell the scent of coffee and leather mingled with sandalwood and musk. It is the scent of Dean, of home.  
  
“You are such a girl, Dean”  
  
“Me? Who’s the one getting all weepy _Samantha_?”  
  
“Shut up and kiss me.”  
  
“Don’t have to ask me twice, baby.” Dean’s tongue flicks out, caressing Sam’s lower lip, begging for entry as his hands wind through the silken waves of Sam’s unruly mop of chestnut hair.  
  
Sam sighs into Dean’s mouth, his body melting under Dean’s gentle touches, both their bodies pressing toward the other as if the their desire will allow them to flow together, become one body, one mind, one soul. Each man is oblivious to his surroundings, a fact that would have made John Winchester weep in frustration.   
  
A sharp, staccato rap on the driver’s side window sends Dean shooting up in his seat, head smacking into the dome light with a crack.   
  
“I thought you said he was your brother? That’s kind of gross, you do know that right?” Dean recognizes the voice and grabs at Sam’s sleeve as Sam shoots out from his seat and rounds the car. Sam could be mighty frightening when angered, despite his overactive conscience and love of tofu. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. House didn’t just buy himself a black eye for his intrusion. Dean was certainly feeling less disposed toward stopping his brother form kicking House's ass at the moment.   
  
“How the fuck did you…”  
  
“It wasn’t hard. While you and your…partner…” House smirks. “Were having a tete-a-tete in the hospital parking lot I decided to follow you. I figured you might be up to some spooky ghost buster nonsense out here. I must say I was little surprised when you started sucking face.”  
  
Sam’s fist wraps itself in House’s lapel and he is about to ask another question when Dean climbs out of the driver side door and House’s eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“Bryan Adams? I pegged you for more of a _Beth_ guy when it came to make out music; but then you just had your tongue wrapped around your brother so what the hell do I know, right?”   
  
Dean laughs. Only a man this arrogant could fail to recognize how close he was to a broken jaw or recognize and simply not care.  
  
“What can I say, I’m a renaissance man. Sammy, let him go, he’s harmless. Greg House, this is my brother Sam.”  
  
“Sam.” House extends his hand and Sam shakes his head and paces away and back then takes the offered hand.   
  
“Ah, hi.” Sam mutters.  
  
“So, what do I do now?”  
  
“Huh?” Both men stare at Greg House, who drags a small amber bottle from his pocket.  
  
“Well? How do I get rid of the cut throat bitch? You guys are the experts, right?”


	7. Wanna Park?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: No warnings, just smut and snark, such a lovely combination!

“Let me get this straight, you two travel around the country hunting ghouls and demons…”  
  
“Dude, ghouls are disgusting.” Dean snorts.   
  
“Ghouls are real?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
House stares as the younger one, Sam, shakes his head, a mop of chestnut waves falling across his brow. The sternness in the young man’s eyes belies a fierce intelligence. House prefers the elder, with his garrulous bravado and keen intellect. He recognizes his own broken soul in Dean Winchester and senses that this man has traversed terrain far more soul shattering than any of the petty hells that House has endured.   
  
“And ghouls are gross?”  
  
“Yup.”   
  
“And ghosts, like Amber, actually exist?”   
  
Dean snorts and interrupts as Sam opens his mouth to answer the question.  
  
“Yes, monsters are real; we hunt them and kill them, have for most of our lives, until we kind of got caught in the crossfire between heaven and hell and now, well, let’s just say the Almighty has let us off the hook. So we’re retiring because dying is a drag, Hell is worse, demons suck ass, and for the most part, angels are total douche-bags. Most of the people we love are dead and it’s not like we haven’t both been there, done that too. Your Amber is kind of like our swan song and then it’s off to the great white north so that we can hopefully live for a really long time without having to deal with total cock-knockers like you.”  
  
Sam chuckles. Dean’s diatribes are always amusing and most of the time Dean sticks to a strict code of silence around civilians. Occasionally they run into someone who Dean thinks needs to hear the truth either to save them or to shut them the hell up. Sam finds nothing more entertaining than watching the poor sod who just happened to walk into Dean Winchester’s crosshairs struggle to catch up.   
  
  
“What about Santa?”  
  
Sam quirks an eye brow and leans against the Impala. Apparently Dr. Greg House does not struggle with anything.  
  
“We ran into a Belsnickle last year, well, actually, I don’t know if those two counted as Belsnickle or not. They were definitely pagan gods who had a thing for fruit cake and human sacrifice.” Sam answers.  
  
Dean laughs, the sound is leaden and mirthless. “They were fucking assholes is what they were. That Christmas sucked.”   
  
House watches as the younger man pushes himself off the car and closes the distance between himself and his brother. Sam cups the other man’s face in his hands, and heedless of House’s presence, lays a chaste kiss on Dean’s lips. One hand slides from Dean’s cheek to cover his heart and the other claps as the nape of Dean’s neck as he leans their foreheads together. The two twine together like oak and fern and House becomes acutely aware of the cold air snapping against his flushed cheeks. The intimacy of the moment more profound and revealing, truer than anything he has experienced. It makes his chest constrict and the ruined muscle of his leg ache with phantom pain.  
  
“Ah, hello? Can we save the _Brokeback_ moment for later? I’m kind of being haunted here…” House’s cell phone rings and he pulls it from his pocket, rolling his eyes as he checks the number and begins to hobble toward his car.  
  
Sam breaks away from Dean and jogs to House’s side.   
  
“We think you’re most likely safe at the hospital. Well as safe as you can be. You haven’t seen her there have you?”  
  
“I’ve seen her everywhere, but mostly at home and at the bar.”  
  
Sam processes for a moment, wondering whether to lie and placate or just spill the truth at this man’s feet. He studies the glacier blue eyes, the wariness and the exhaustion and something else, a tenacity bolstered by the bone-deep belief that you can survive the flesh-rending explosion of your own self-destruction through sheer force of will. He’d seen that look in his father’s eyes, in Dean’s, and in his own. “I think if she wanted you dead, you’d be there already, but there are no guarantees. There is nothing we can do about it until we have a chance to go by the cemetery after it gets dark, so maybe avoid that bar and the apartment and stick to the hospital for now. We’ll call you when it’s done. What’s your number?”  
  
House rattles off his cell number as his phone rings again. Sam looks at the small cellular devise like it has just started spouting a demonic banishing ritual in Latin.  
  
“Dude, is your ring tone really _Mmm-Bop_?”  
  
“Says the man who likes to play tonsil hockey with his brother to _Bryan Adams_?” House flips his phone open. The weight of those eyes leaves Sam’s face and he sighs with relief, noticing how tense his muscles were; as if he were braced for mental dissection from the moment he came face to face with Greg House.  
  
“That guy is a piece of work.” Dean says as Sam makes his way back to the car.   
  
“Yeah, I kind of think it might not be a bad idea to let Amber have her way with him. He’s kind of a tool.”   
  
“Sammy, that would trash our batting average. Do you really want to throw the game in the final inning?”   
  
“Baseball metaphors? Dean, what the hell?”  
  
“Climb in the back with me baby, if you play your cards right I may even let you get to second base.”   
  
Sam checks the area where the car is parked, it’s still deserted and they do have a few hours to kill before dark. He presses Dean against the car door using his height to crowd his brother as he slides his fingers along the zipper of Dean’s jeans, feeling his cock twitch beneath the pressure of his palm.  
  
Dean tilts his head back and moans as Sam presses harder against him and dips his head, tracing a path from the crook of Deans’ neck to his ear with his tongue. “Dean, you know what I want to do right now?”  
  
“What Sammy?” Dean’s voice is already rasping and thready with need.   
  
Sam spins Dean in his arms and places Dean’s hands on the roof of the car, then slides one hand beneath Dean’s shirt, rolling first one nipple then the other between his thumb and forefinger until the flesh is pebbled and hard. His other hand pops the button on Dean’s jeans, pulling the zipper down and sliding his hand past the waist band of Dean’s boxer briefs, flicking his thumb across the slit of Dean’s weeping cock.  
  
Dean pants and whines as Sam’s hand wraps around his length, the callous that mars the webbing between Sam’s thumb and forefinger dragging against the crown and creating a delicious pulling sensation on the sensitive skin stretched taut by blood and desire.  
  
“Right now, Dean, I want to bend you naked across the hood of your fucking baby. I want to fuck you open with my tongue. I want to suck you until your scent is the only thing I can smell, your body is the only thing I can taste.”  
  
_“Please”_ Dean whimpers as he presses forward, the cool metal of the Impala’s door shocking against the overheated flesh on his stomach. Sam grinds his own aching hardness against Dean’s ass wondering if he can get off from this, from just the friction of his pulsing cock rubbing through layers of fabric against Dean’s muscular ass and the trembling gasps of pleasure bursting from Dean’s body.  
  
“ _Please_ what baby? Do you want me to get on my knees for you? You want to fuck my mouth, paint my throat and my lips with your come?”   
  
Dean’s muscles begin to shake with tremors of tension. An orgasm twists his gut, a tightening heavy heat gathering in his belly and balls. The thunderhead of desire swirls around the two men as they writhe against each other, rushing toward their climax, their breath mingling together as Dean leans his head back against Sam’s shoulder, licking at the hard line of Sam’s jaw.  
  
“I want to feel your cock gliding along my tongue Dean. I want you to watch my eyes as you thrust into me, as I swallow every drop you are willing to give me. Would you like that, would you like to feel me slick your own come across your ass with my tongue and then drive into you _godfuckDeanIloveyou_ until you are begging me to come again, your cock gliding against the cool metal of your car, working your dick until you shiver and shudder while I’m buried so deep inside of you...”   
  
A roar explodes from Dean’s lungs and Sam feels the searing heat of Dean’s orgasm pulse across his skin. Dean’s turns in Sam’s embrace frantic to feel Sam come apart under his hands. He slips quickly to his knees and pulls Sam’s dick from his pants. He plunges the steel hardness into the wet heat of his mouth, sucking hard, cheeks hollowed, his single minded determination focused on Sam’s pleasure.   
  
The glide of Dean’s tongue, the scrape of teeth along the crown, and the small nips along the base of his cock cause Sam’s body to quiver and quake as he releases his passion. Sam throws his head back and takes in the sky, the air on his skin, the scrumptious feeling of electricity coursing through his body and the sound of Dean’s rough panting as he rises and draws Sam against him.   
  
Sam feels the rumble of laughter in Dean’s chest. “God damn Sammy, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap when we get back to the hotel.”  
  
Sam looks in Dean’s eyes, taking in their beautiful color, moss covered river rocks flecked with gold, searching for the accusation or the insecurity and finding only love. “Really? Kind-a seemed like you liked it?”  
  
“Oh, I liked it, alright. But holy hell; so much for an innocent make out session.”  
  
Sam chuckles. “Well, we still have about an hour before it gets dark, what do ya’ say? Wanna park?”  
  
“Fuck yeah!” Dean opens the driver side door and slides behind the wheel and Sam can hear him muttering as he walks around the car, he doesn’t catch all of it, but he is pretty sure Dean says something about not being nearly as pervy as his annoying little brother as he opens the door and climbs into the car to the opening strains of _Run to You_.


	8. Digging in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to depression, suicidal ideations, and substance abuse.

House props his feet on Coma Guy’s bed and searches the bedside tray for the remote control. He flips through the channels, 10% of his intellect is focused on his latest case, knowing that the lab results will return a result of PNH, something Cuddy had said when she caught him sneaking past the clinic after his rendezvous with the Ghostbusters got him thinking. Good thing too, because he’s blown off his clinic hours this entire month in an effort to keep Cuddy from poking her gorgeous and significantly perkier C-cups into his deteriorating mental health. Getting sucked into a conversation with Cuddy would run the risk of her figuring out that he is finally drowning in his own pathetic misery and quite possibly going certifiably insane.

90% of House’s dizzying mental capacity turns toward the smell of Lisa Cuddy’s hair, freesia and honeysuckle shot through with a note of fresh apples. The scent is warm and it never fails to curl around him and make his mouth water whenever she passes. House allows himself a moment to wonder what it would be like to lie beside her in the dark and bury his face in her hair, to have her laugh that throaty rasping sexy-as-hell laugh as the stubble from his chin teases the nape of her neck. He loves her, loves the way that her mouth quirks up slightly higher on the left when she smiles and the stern yet resolute way she asserts her significant intelligence. He respects her kindness and her loyalty. His feelings for Cuddy may kill him someday and with that final thought he looks up to see Amber lounging on Coma Guy’s bed.

“So, do you really think the _Hardy Boys_ can get rid of me?”

“Hey look, _Baywatch Nights_.” House ignores Amber and settles back to watch David Hasselhoff battle the forces of darkness.

“How appropriate.” Amber purrs as she slides up beside Coma Guy’s body and rests her head on the pillow, watching House not watch her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No need.” House slips the Vicodin bottle from his jacket pocket, slams back a pill and then resumes watching television. “Do you think that Mitch has a brother?”

“I don’t think anymore House, I’m dead, remember? The whole of my existence is focused on you.”

“Why?” House turns from the television, watching the blue light flicker across Amber’s skin. He resists the urge to reach out and touch her.

“Because, I am going to make sure that you lose the only thing that matters to you. I want you to crumble like the battered, broken child that you are. You need to suffer House.”

House pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, wads it into a ball and tosses it at Amber. The paper bounces off Amber’s forehead and lands on the bed at her elbow.

“What are you, five?”

“I was curious.”

“You are arrogant.”

“So were you.”

“I didn’t destroy people’s lives. You do.”

House considers Amber’s words, brow knit in concentration, then his eyes relax and a wicked grin  tugs at the corners of his mouth. He turns back to the television. “Right. So. Wilson’s doing great.”

The remote flies from House’s hand and shatters against the wall. Amber’s whisper is as delicate as the rustle of silk sliding against skin, but her tone is calculating  and measured. “Don’t”

“Don’t what?  Insult you?  Your ridiculous thing with Wilson was reaching its expiration date anyway. Face it, you would have just ended up as alimony payment number four. You’re lucky you got out when you did. Now you’ve achieved mythical saint-like status in Wilson’s mind. You should be thanking me.”

House smells ozone and heat, that metallic-cinder snap that chokes the air after an electrical fire. Amber’s body flickers on Coma Guy’s bed like someone has switched off an ancient television set, then she is seated in House’s lap and his chest tightens as she strokes her hand over his sternum. The freezing chill from her fingers seeping through his clothes into his bones.

“What are you going to do? Torture me with your vague threats of loneliness and ruin again?  Do you think that _frightens_ me?   If that’s all you’ve got, then you might as well go rattle your chains at someone else.”

“You want to die.” Amber states as plainly as she would that the sky is blue and she is dead. It is a realization, not a question or a threat. She places a hand on House’s throat and her frigid oily touch against his bare skin makes House squirm. “I can work with that.”

***

“Hey Sammy.”

Dean leans on his shovel, his head, and shoulders visible from ground level as he stands in the earth. Sam takes a break, swigging a bottle of water and patting his pockets down to make sure he has a zippo handy.

“Yeah?”

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like, babe?”

“ _It_ , you know, normal life?”

Sam hears the unasked questions that are knotted in Dean’s throat. _Will I be okay? How will we live? Does the warrior cease to exist when the war ends? Will you still love me when you no longer need me to protect you?_ He chooses to soothe his brother with the pictures he has imagined over the past month, the life of ease where they are free to love each other without the crushing weight of the future grinding them to dust.

“It is what it is, Dean. We’ll go to the grocery store and cook instead of going to greasy spoons and mom-and-pop diners.” Sam notices a look of horror on Dean’s face and quickly amends his statement. “But I’m sure we’ll still buy plenty of crap food, we wouldn’t want your body going into shock from lack of preservatives and grease.” Dean’s shakes his head and chuckles as he resumes digging.

“We’ll write rent checks that actually clear the bank instead of using phony credit cards. We’ll sleep in on Sunday instead of racing to beat check-out time. We’ll make friends and watch football games and drink beer. We’ll make love on the living room couch on Friday nights and grumble about having to go to work on Monday morning.”

“We’ll talk about where we have been and what we have become as we fall asleep in _our own bed_ and when we wake up next to each other morning after morning we’ll know.” Dean stops digging again and stares at Sam, his face blossoming with hope as Sam’s words penetrate his insecurity.  Sam’s voice is raw with emotion, tears streaking down his dirt covered cheeks. “We’ll know that we came by our peace honest, that we paid for it with our blood and that in the end, we found each other and that is what saved us.”

“I love you Sammy.”

“And I love you.”

Each regards the other for a moment more and then continues to dig. A few minutes later they strike the top of Amber’s casket and begin the macabre process of laying her soul to rest.

 They laid a salt ring around the gravesite for safety, no sense in getting tossed into a headstone and ending up brain dead on their final hunt. A bag of salt, a can of lighter fluid, and a small wooden box sit on a patch of earth inside the circle and within arm’s reach of the mouth of the grave.

The wooden box is the size of the thick paperback novels with names like _Gone Baby, Gone_ or _Dogs of Riga_ that Sam buys when Dean just happens to park the Impala within walking distance of a book store. The box is plain ash, sanded but unfinished. Dean spent days finding the wood and then creating the piece when they were staying at Bobby’s before making their final journey East. The joints are simple dove-tail work, threaded and glued together, function dictating form as uncomplicated as the pine boxes used to lay paupers to rest. Inside the box they have laid their past; their mother’s and father’s wedding rings and the last of John Winchester’s ashes.  Dean also insisted that they include a picture of themselves and a letter he had written to their parents in a moment of un-Dean-like vulnerability, like the contents combined with all the love he had poured into his family over the years would carry his words to his parents.

 _Prayers, carried to heaven on the smoke and ash of the dead_. Sam thinks as takes the box and hands it to Dean, who places it on the salted remains of Amber Volakis. Sam flicks open the zippo and drops it in the grave after Dean crawls out. Sam twines his fingers with Dean’s as they watch the tongues of flame lick the earth.

“It’s really over, isn’t it?” Dean rasps as the realization that there is no hunt following this one; Sam will not flip open the lap top tomorrow morning and start combing newspapers and message boards for the <i>next</i> big bad.

“Yes, it is.” Sam turns to Dean and cups his brother’s face in his hands. “It’s time for you to rest Dean, time for us, for you, to finally just live.”

“What if I don’t know how?”

Sam’s heart breaks at how young Dean sounds; lost and frightened, nothing like the warrior he was groomed to become or the broken husk of a man that was lifted from Hell not for his own salvation, but for Sam’s, for the world’s. Sam recognizes this moment as the one in which he must now become for Dean all the things that Dean so selflessly became to him across the years: protector, brother, lover.

He pulls Dean flush against him and lays a single, chaste kiss on his brother’s lips and then lays his cheek Dean’s brow as his strokes Dean’s back while the fire burning the remnants of their past life begins to weaken and fade.

“Then I’ll be there to show you.”

***

House’s consciousness is fading. He feels the burn in his lungs as Amber’s frigid hand blocks the flow of air to his lungs. House’s mind is commanding his arms and legs to flail but Amber’s will holds him steady, still as a corpse.

Pain blossoms behind his eyes as stars begin to cloud his graying vision and  90% of House’s intellect is trying to figure out if Amber’s fingers will leave bruises or if his death will be chocked up to House finally drowning under the weight of his own apathy and a deadly Vicodin addiction.

The remaining 10% that contains his final thought before he slips into oblivion is that he wishes he could have said goodbye to Cuddy and seen her smile one last time.

Then cool oxygen is flooding his lungs and the cloying, disgusting cold that Amber’s hands painted across his skin is gone.  House gasps for air as he paws at his throat, fighting for equilibrium.  He senses Amber’s absence like a phantom pain and knows that the physical presence that had been plaguing him is gone and he wonders as he leans forward, fighting the waves of dizziness, whether the rush of tears spilling down his unshaven cheeks are tears of disappointment or relief.


	9. Putting Princeton in the Rearview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: References to substance abuse and mental illness.

“Sammy. Sammy, wake up.” Dean leans cross Sam’s body, inhales the warm sleepy scent that clings to his lover’s skin after a night’s rest. He swats at Sam’s phone which trills and vibrates just beyond the reach of his groping fingers. He rocks into Sam’s body to gain purchase and stop the miserable electronic twitter.

“Jesus Dean, what freaking time is it?”

“Sam…”Dean heaves a final time and log rolls over Sam but the phone goes silent as soon as he snatches it from the nightstand. “ _SonofaBITCH_ ”

Sam looks up into his brother’s face and smiles while he traces the red wrinkled pillow lines denting Dean’s cheek, the palm of his hand rasping against a faint shadow of stubble. Sam’s hand slides up behind Dean’s neck and tugs on the mussed spikes of dirty blonde hair sticking out at all angles from Dean’s skull while the other ghosts across the bare skin of Dean’s smooth, muscular back.  “You need a haircut.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” Dean growls, as his hardening cock slides against the groove of muscle where the yoke of Sam’s rippled abdominals dip and meet his slender hips. Sam’s breath hitches as he thrusts upwards, both hands sliding to Dean’s ass as he spreads his legs, winding his strong limbs around his lover’s waist. Dean’s weight sinks against Sam, settling in the comfort of the cradle created by Sam’s body. His tongue flicks against Sam’s earlobe, sucking the tender flesh into his searing mouth for a moment before releasing it and whispering in Sam’s ear.

“Do you know how much I love you?”

Sam shivers as small surges of pleasure trill across the surface of his skin.

“Well, do you?” The gravel and whiskey of Dean’s voice rumbles in the depth of Dean’s chest as he rolls his pelvis in languid circles, the velvet steel of each man’s arousal sliding together against the other’s overheated skin.

“Mmmmhmmm” Sam moans the higher brain function necessary to form words and use language lost in the delicious friction of his brother’s body writhing against his own.

Dean grinds into Sam one last time and then slides away, sitting up with his back against the head board. A whine escapes Sam’s lips and he grasps at Dean’s forearm, trying to pull him back and regain the sweet pressure of his lover’s weight pressing him toward the earth. “No Dean, s’cold, come back.”

“Nah Sammy, I have something to show you.” Dean slides his hand over his aching hardness once then spreads his legs, tugging on Sam’s shoulder and maneuvering his brother until Sam is nestled between Dean’s thighs, Sam’s back pressed to Dean’s chest, Dean’s cock trapped tight between the two. Sam groans as Dean’s calloused fingers glide over his chest, one hand reaching down to stroke Sam’s cock, the other cupping Sam’s chin and lifting it so that Sam is facing straight ahead.

A large vanity mirror faces the hotel bed and Dean nips at the tender skin just below Sam’s ear, his breath heaving, his own excitement so consuming he wonders if his skin will catch alight just from the gorgeous sight before him. Sam is arching into the hand that circles his cock, the perfect mushroom head blood rich and leaking, urgent hisses of pleasure dripping from his slack lips.

Dean grinds up once into Sam to feel the tantalizing pull of skin against skin and then sucks in a lungful of air that rushes into his mouth like water, the thick musk of arousal and clean sweat sharp on his tongue.

Dean groans. “Open your eyes baby.” 

Sam’s eyes flutter open and he catches Dean’s eyes in the reflection. He spares a moment for the embarrassment of seeing himself spread open and aroused. The scrumptious rasp of Dean’s hand gliding over his dick and the thrum of Dean’s heart hammering against his back dispels any vestiges of self-consciousness, carrying the feeling away like a sharp northern wind plucking the smoke from a midnight fire and scatters it toward the stars.

“You are beautiful.” Dean’s grip on Sam’s sex tightens while he lowers his other hand and places it over Sam’s heart.

Sam’s mouths air, prayer absent sound, allowing the intensity of his gaze communicate the overwhelming emotion that he cannot form into words, the language he has is too crude and clumsy to express anything close to how he feels in this moment. Instead he grasps at Dean’s thighs, knowing that Dean will bear small half-moon bruises for the next few days. The thought arouses Sam even when he imagines licking and sucking around that skin as he tongues his way toward Dean’s hardness, his fingers clasped within the tight heat of Dean’s ass, stretching that taught pink muscle, teasing it until it will accept him and he can slip into his brother as easy as breathing.

“Sammy…God…you’re so fucking incredible. Look at you. Look at how amazing you are.”

The endearment sounds so perfect and so _fuck_ _me_ _until_ _I_ _can’t_ _remember_ _my_ _own_ _name_ dirty on Dean’s tongue. Sam pants and moans his body starting to thrash, each muscle stretches and vibrates with tension.

“Tell me Sammy, tell me what you see when we make love?”

“Dean…fuck…I…” Sam gasps for breath, watching Dean’s face shift in the low light of morning. The puffs of breath as Dean speaks cascade over his shoulder and across his body. Dean’s hands pleasuring him yet holding him steady and still is almost too much sensation for his skin to contain.

“Sammy…” Dean thrusts up against Sam, his cock pulsing against Sam’s back.

“You Dean. I see you.” Sam feels his balls draw into his body as his dick starts to twitch and he feels as if his joints are disarticulating, muscles melting off his frame as his come bursts from his body, white sparks exploding in his field of vision. Then he hears Dean grunt and feels Dean’s arms squeeze around him as his body bucks against Sam’s, Dean’s mouth opening and closing against Sam’s neck a string of curses mixed with I love you, love you, love you.

Liquid heat explodes against the Sam’s skin and Sam spins in his lover’s arms, craning his neck to lick at the corner of Dean’s mouth.

Dean cards his hand through Sam’s hair, resting his palm on the nape of his lover’s neck, playing with the soft curls that are dampened with sweat. Sam rests his head against Dean’s chest, chasing his breath as his heart begins to slow, the sound of their breathing, the rustle of sheets, and whir of the electric heater blowing warm air into the room creates a cocoon of sound swaddling the two men as they cleave to each other in the pale light of early morning.

The waspish report of Sam’s cell phone bursts the comfortable silence that has grown between the two.  Sam twists to reach for the phone but Dean restrains him and nuzzles into his hair. “No, not yet…”

“Dean.”

“Nope, not ready to share you with the world yet.”

The phone stops ringing and Dean heaves a sigh of relief until the opening chords of _Run Through the Jungle_ fill the room.

“How about Bobby?”

“Not even him.”

Credence Clearwater Revival twangs against the hotel walls and then goes silent; then Sam’s phone begins to twitter again.  Both men laugh; deep rumbling belly laughs that shake their chests; Sam’s eyes prick with tears because a sense of joy as real and tangible as the kiss of a spring breeze against his cheek flutters against his rib cage. They are free, he wraps his arms around Dean’s middle and rolls them over so that Dean is hovers above him as he licks and nips at Dean’s exposed neck.

Sam feels Dean’s shaft begin to harden once again and he splays his legs wider. “Want you.” Sam pants.

Dean slides his fingers across Sam’s lips and Sam’s mouth opens licking at the pads of the offered fingers. He raises his eyes to meet Dean’s, taking in the sliver of Baltic amber flecked with gold almost obscured entirely by heavy lids and the sweep of lashes against his blush stained cheeks.

Sam tongues Dean’s fingers moaning as Dean pulls his hand away and slides down Sam’s body, kneeling between Sam’s thighs.  His palms slide down Sam’s thighs, hooking beneath his knees and pushing his thighs against Sam’s belly exposing him, Dean shudders as Sam’s body quakes with anticipation. He strokes the puckered flesh then dips his head down, he laves the tender skin of Sam’s balls then moves lower, his tongue darting out and placing soft kitten licks against Sam’s entrance.  He alternates touches of tongue and finger, until his own need drives him to pierce Sam’s body with his tongue, plunging inside and savoring flavor of Sam’s musk and the heady scent of their bodies mingling from their previous love making.    

“Dean, fuck, I…”  Sam’s hands wind into the sheets as he writhes beneath his brother’s mouth. “Inside, please.”

Dean sits up and leans over to snatch the bottle of lube from the night stand. He quickly coats three fingers with lube and slips one inside Sam’s body, crooking the digit to brush against the bright bundle of nerves, sending electric sparks of pleasure across the surface of Sam’s skin.  Dean fucks into Sam’s body with one, then two, then three fingers, scissoring and stretching Sam’s body while he grasps the base of his own cock to stave off his own release.

“Dean, please, I’m ready.” Sam’s hands fly backwards to push against the headboard for leverage as he rocks into Dean’s fingers.  “I…please.”

Something inside Dean snaps, the lust riding his spine, as he fists his own dick with pre-cum and lube then slides into Sam’s body in one easy motion moaning as the tight velvet heat envelopes his cock. One of Dean’s hands rests on Sam’s rippled abdomen the other curls over Sam’s shaft, pumping in time with his steady thrusts. He angles his hips to brush against Sam’s prostate each time he pushes back inside Sam.

“Love you, love you so goddamn much, baby.” Dean whispers.

Sam’s hand wraps around the one Dean has gliding over his own pulsing cock.   “Not gonna last…wanna...come with me.” Sam’s muscles go rigid, clamping down as delight coils and bursts low in his gut.  Dean follows his brother, the look of awe and love that spreads across Sam’s features when he comes pulls Dean over the edge as his own orgasm causes his body trembles each muscle suffused with pleasure. Sam feels the liquid heat filling him and he grasps Dean’s shoulders dragging Dean’s mouth to his.

The two men lick and pant into each other’s mouths as they ride through the aftermath of their joining.

Dean collapses over Sam, burying his face in Sam’s neck and rubbing his cheek back and forth against Sam’s shoulder, holding Sam tight against his naked body.

“Dude, you okay?”

“Yeah…” Dean slides off Sam and runs his fingers through his hair. Dean’s mouth opens his mouth and shuts it again. Sam pushes up on his elbows, concern coloring his features as his eyebrows draw together.

“What Dean?” Sam reaches out, resting his palm against Dean’s cheek.

“In a few days we’re going to have a home.”  Sam sees tears brimming in Dean’s eyes. “I haven’t…I never thought we would have that. I never thought that I would have that again.  It’s been so long Sammy.”  Dean ducks his head swiping at his tears.

“Dean.” Sam chokes; he wonders how he ever thought his life would be full without this generous, incredible man.

“I’m just scared. Scared I’m going to fuck this up, but I kind of can’t wait either, you know?”

Sam just shakes his head, tears forming in his own eyes again as Dean leans forward and brushes his lips against his own.

“I can’t wait to start my life with you Sammy.”

Sam sighs into Dean’s kiss, then pulls back, “I can’t wait either.”

Dean kisses Sam one more time then rolls off the bed. “Shower, food, House, then…home, what d’ya say?”

Sam face breaks into a bright, wide smile. “Yeah.” Sam tosses a pillow at Dean’s bare ass as his brother walks to the bathroom. “Yeah, that sounds good. That sounds better than good.”

Dean chuckles and tosses the pillow back over his shoulder.  Sam flops back on the bed and listens to the shower switch on, shaking his head when he hears Dean’s gravel and whiskey voice belting out the lyrics to “Home Sweet Home.”

_Take me to your heart_

_Feel me in your bones_

_Just one more night_

_And I'm comin' off this_

_Long and winding road_

“Crue sucks.” Sam shouts.

“Oh and the Goo Goo Dolls are a font of musical genius, ya’ got no taste Sammy. No taste at all.” Dean fires back and ratchets up the volume of his voice. Sam stretches out to palm his phone off the nightstand when a sharp staccato rapping on the steel door of the hotel room startles him and he tumbles onto the floor.

“Sammy?”  Dean calls from the bathroom. “You okay?”

“Shit.” Sam rubs at his right thigh and pulls himself up. “I’m fine Dean. Just someone at the door.” 

“Salt lines okay?”

“Dean, come on Dude, last time I checked Demons don’t knock.”

“Crowley does. And those winged ass monkeys always do, except for Cas, and he just shows up, so there.”

“Okay, so touché.” Sam says pulling on a pair of sweats and makes sure that the salt line inside is solid. He pulls open the door and is met by a pair of glacier blue eyes and a thin mouth quirked into a sardonic smirk.

“Demons don’t knock, huh? Good to know. What about faeries?”

Dean emerges from the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips and another twisted around his head like a turban.

“Never met one; hear they suck though. Come in two flavors, crazy and bat-shit-eat-your-eyeballs crazy.” Dean quips.

“Faeries are real too?”

“Dude, we have no clue.” Sam groans in frustration and turns his attention to Dean. “And thanks for leaving me a dry towel, jack ass.”

Dean’s hands fly out in an exaggerated shrug and he opens his mouth to complain as House cuts him off.

“Look, before you spank Lana Turner here for his clear abuse of hotel linens I just wanted to know if it was over.”

“Yeah, unless there are bits of her hanging around that we don’t know about.”  Dean says.

“What do you mean exactly by bits?”

“You know hair, body parts. Hey Sammy, what would happen if a vengeful spirit was an organ donor?  Huh, isn’t it weird we never ran into that?”

“Forget to take your ADHD meds there Lana?” House snarks at Dean and then turns to Sam waiting for an answer to his previous question.

A thunder cloud rolls across Sam’s brow and he sucks in a deep breath trying to ignore the urge to clock Greg House in the jaw. “You’re good. It should be over, but Robert knows how to get a message to our uncle if something else happens.”

House watches Dean rifle through his duffle and pull out a small device the size and shape of an old style walkman, flick a switch on the back and walk over to him scanning his body like a wand-happy TSA agent.

“No EMF. This dick is clean.” Dean pronounces in his best Tangina impression and snatches a pair of boxers out of his bag heading back to the bathroom.

House laughs, a full and gracious sound that surprises both Sam and Dean. “Sam, if your brother ever gets the urge to become a doctor, have him call me. Good luck with…yeah.”

“Yeah. You too, man. You too.” Sam says, smiling a little at the strange and generous benediction.

***

The door shuts and House hears the younger man yell at his brother Dean about saving him some hot water. He smiles and hobbles toward his car. He pushes his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out his pill bottle, slamming back two Vicodin.  House glances over the hood of his car before sliding behind the wheel.

“Last time I checked you were too self-involved to be an organ donor.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”

“I knew you weren’t real.”

“I’m as real as you want me to be.” Amber says before she disappears.

***

“You think that guy is gonna be okay?” Dean shouts toward the bathroom as he watches House hobble toward his car.

“I don’t know, Dean, maybe?  He’s an addict and a total douche bag, but he’s smart, why?”

“Well, let’s start with him talking to someone who’s not there. You think we missed something?”

Sam slides behind Dean and looks out the window over Dean’s shoulder. “No, but I think the guy’s psyche is bustified, you know? Now come on, we gotta call Bobby before he send Rufus to check on us and then get on the road. You ready?”

Dean turns to Sam sliding his arms around his waist. “Ready for what, baby?”

“To go home.” Sam presses his cheek to Dean’s forehead.

“Yes, Sammy. Let’s go home.”


End file.
